


a purveyor of tragedy, and all the things that follow

by aroceu



Category: Some Boys Don't Leave (2009), The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Casual Sex, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Threesome - F/M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8316682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroceu/pseuds/aroceu
Summary: Wearing your best poker face, you call his bluff. (No hearts were broken in the making of this long con.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> tfw u just wanna write a some boys don't leave au but then it gets a plot??????ok

You get the door open and he slams you against it, the light from the hall shining on half your face. He kisses down your neck and you wrap your legs around him, moaning, trying not to sound _too_ happy (even though you are.) His hands find your thighs near the strap of your garter, under your dress, tied to the top of your thigh highs; he holds you in place and kisses around your clavicle and his arms are warm around you.

This is when you let your head turn. Mark is sitting in the hall of your apartment, like he was this morning, the shadow of his profile illuminated outside light. He looks at you, and when he notices you noticing him, he comments, “Classy.”

Eduardo’s lips detach from your neck. “Who’s that?” he asks, hot breath in your space, against your cheek.

You turn back to him, kiss his chin, his jaw, the length of his neck. “A roommate,” you lie, and he breathes, “Okay,” before hiking you up, your legs tight around his waist. He walks you both backward which is unbelievably hot, and you cling to him, arms around his neck.

“Bedroom’s that way,” says Mark’s voice somewhere behind the both of you, but you ignore him; it’s not like either of you can see him in your dark apartment, anyway. You push absently at the door of the room that’s yours. Eduardo gets his hand on the knob, still barely holding you up, and straddles you both in and onto your bed.

Tonight you are maybe louder than usual, when Eduardo ducks his head between your thighs, when he is hot inside you, pushing at you with gentleness and tenderness that you have to press the heels of your feet at his ass to fuck him harder. He is nothing like Mark was in bed (nervous, wiry, determined), but you think of Mark in the hallway, and you moan louder than you normally would, pant Eduardo’s name between each of your thrusts, don’t try to stifle your cries by digging your teeth into Eduardo’s shoulder. You don’t think too much of it, but as you fuck Eduardo you think of Mark.

You want to put on a show for him.

*

In the morning, her alarm wakes the both of you up. You groan; the sunlight shines bright through her turquoise curtains.

She kisses you on the nose and your eyes squint open. “Good morning,” she says, smiling, rolling out of bed.

You watch her bare ass as she heads to her closet. “Morning,” you say to her backside. “Is it time for you to kick me out already?”

Erica laughs, glancing back to you, giving you a smile that looks entirely too secretive. “No, it’s fine, I just have work,” she says. “You can help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen, though.”

“That’s generous,” you say. You sit up, grabbing for your shirt, buttoning it up your chest. You’d put your boxer briefs on after last night, and you get up from her bed and walk over to her. You wrap your arms around her torso and she giggles into you.

“Have a good day at work, honey,” you tease against her cheek.

She giggles again. “Aren’t we moving fast,” she says, turning in your arms and lightly pushing you back.

You smile at her again, despite yourself. You’d only met her last night at a club: she was sitting at a bar, drinking and tired, and you’d sat down with her, meaning to get your own drink and ending in small talk. One thing led to another—her complaining about her ex and not wanting to go home, you complaining about work and your father, and her eyes kept drifting down to your lips and you’d taken a chance and covered her palm with yours. The one thing had led to a pretty fantastic another, and now you’re here, standing awkwardly in the doorway of her closet, as she gets dressed, unashamed.

“Seriously,” you say, “thanks for the—” You run a hand through your bedraggled hair, blushing suddenly. “I don’t usually do this.”

She grins at you. You feel like a little boy, caught being shy. “Neither do I,” she says, “but it’s okay. We all deserve a night off, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” you say, relieved.

Erica’s in a blazer and trousers now, tied her hair back into a long plait and looking like someone ready for work. “Well, like I said,” she says, walking up to you again, “help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

“I appreciate it,” you say sincerely.

She smirks. “I know,” she says, before going up on her toes to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Bye sweetheart,” she teases, before disappearing out of her bedroom door.

You sigh, feeling luckier than you’ve been in a while. As you trudge back over to her bed—maybe you’ll sleep a bit more—you hear some voices outside. You remember last night fuzzily—you do remember nearly tripping over some person on the floor, though. It would be embarrassing if they’d heard you and Erica having sex, although it also asks the question of why they’re outside of her room in the first place.

You sleep for another hour in Erica’s bed before waking up again, your stomach rumbling. It takes you a disoriented moment to remember where you are, but you remember Erica’s words from before and then you eagerly exit her bedroom to find her kitchen.

As soon as you walk out, though, you stop short at the sight in the hallway—it’s a guy, presumably from the night from before, bouncing a ball against the wall. He stops and looks up at you when he emerges. His expression is fixed in something like a bored glare.

“Hello,” you say, tilting your head. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

The guy rolls his eyes. “We met last night.” He resumes bouncing his ball. “Though I guess you were too busy making out with Erica to notice.”

You nod vaguely, and head to the room across, which looks like the kitchen. You begin rifling through the cupboards for essentially anything. “So what kind of guy listens to their roommate having sex?” you call.

You hear the guy snort. “I’m not a roommate,” he says, as you find a box of Cocoa Puffs and pull it out.

Raising your eyebrows, you open the box and look at him. “Then what are you?” you ask, grabbing a few chocolate pieces.

“I’m her boyfriend,” says the guy. He nods at the cereal you’re holding. “And that’s mine.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Boyfriend,” you say, disbelievingly.

For the first time, his gaze falls. “Ex-boyfriend,” he revises.

“There we go,” you say, nodding. You hold out the box of Cocoa Puffs. “Want some?”

He stares at you. “I’m not hungry,” he says, after a moment.

You shrug. “Fair enough,” you say, and continue eating. You’re leaning against the kitchen doorframe peering out into the hallway, and his legs are outstretched on the hardwood in front of him. He’s still bouncing his rubber band ball. “I’m Eduardo, by the way,” you say.

“The guy who had sex with my girlfriend.” He nods.

“Your ex-girlfriend,” you remind him, and he flinches like he hadn’t wanted to hear it said out loud. “So I don’t think there’s anything morally wrong with that.”

His eyes flicker up to you. You have a feeling like he’s trying to figure you out, judge you by your dress shirt and black boxer briefs, the way you’re eating his cereal from the box, which isn’t a habit you normally practice except you’re still feeling as exhausted as you’ve been all week.

“She can do better than you,” he says, finally.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh I see,” you say, rummaging through the cereal. “You think she can do better than me with you.”

He doesn’t answer.

“So if you’re her ex,” you continue, leaving to get a glass of water, “why are you sitting in her hallway listening to her have sex with random guys like me?”

“I’m not—” the guy starts. Then: “You’re the first.”

“I must be special.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “She was desperate.”

“To sleep with someone who isn’t you?”

He’s scowling when you come back, but you’re grinning a little. He’s funny, jealous—you don’t usually try to piss people off, but he already seems to be and you can’t help but push him a little further to see how far his temper can go.

You gulp down your water and decide to give him a break; he’s going through a breakup, after all. “So,” you say, coming back to the hall. “Does Erica’s creepy ex have a name?”

“I’m not creepy,” he says defensively. Then: “Mark.” He gives his name reluctantly.

“Well, Mark,” you say, after finishing your water. “I’m sorry you’re going through a breakup, but you really should at least stop living in Erica’s hallway.”

“It’s _our_ hallway,” he says petulantly.

“Yeah,” you say. “And breakups are hard to get over, but it’ll probably be easier if you don’t try to convince yourself you still live here.”

“I’m not—”

You ignore him, going back to Erica’s room and getting yourself changed. Your own work doesn’t start until the late morning, but it’s already nine and it’ll probably take you at least another hour to go home and then commute. You pull your pants on and make sure you have everything—wallet, keys, subway card. You go back out to the kitchen and find a post-it and pen, and bend over the counter to scribble on it.

Mark’s voice comes from the hallway. “What are you doing?” he calls, annoyed.

“Leaving my number in case Erica needs someone to talk to,” you reply honestly. “Or,” you peek over your shoulder to meet his eyes, “in case she needs someone to help get her over her ex, too.”

He narrows his eyes at you. You smirk.

You go to the front door and pull your shoes on. “Bye, Mark,” you say, wiggling your fingers at him before leaving.

*

You stare at the post-it on the counter. Is he stupid? You go over to it and pick it up, and consider throwing it out for a full five minutes.

Erica is at work; she doesn’t have his number if he left it, so there’s no way she would know if you did. The sticky part sticks to your index finger as you stare fixedly at the ten digits. On second thought, you pull out your own phone from your pocket and put the number in.

Erica won’t come home until five in the afternoon. You go to where Eduardo had left the Cocoa Puffs on the counter, and open them up.

*

He’s still there when you get home. You take your boots off and say wryly, “This is the longest I’ve seen you go without a computer.”

“Does that mean something to you?” he asks. His tone doesn’t show it but you know he’s hopeful.

You hum. “Not really,” you say. You notice he has his phone out on his lap. “Who are you texting?” you ask, despite yourself.

He shuffles his phone away. “No one,” he says, and he sounds like he’s lying but you never knew his friends that well anyway. He looks up at you. “Did you like having sex with Eduardo last night?” he asks.

You glare at him. You shouldn’t justify that with a response, but—“Yes, I did.”

“You were really loud.” He cocks his head to the side. “It sounded like you were faking.”

You flush. “I was not faking!”

“If he didn’t make you come, you shouldn’t have sex with him again,” he says bluntly. “You know, not many guys think about that sort of thing.”

“And I bet you’re just the paragon of thoughtfulness,” you snap. You feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the tension in your head, but you don’t care. “If you’re trying to get me to like you again, Mark,” you say, “it’s really not working.”

You get your hand on the doorknob of your bedroom. “And by the way,” you say, without turning around. “He made me come twice. So fuck you.” You enter your room and slam the door shut.

You breathe heavily against the wall. It was always so easy for Mark to rile you up—it was the reason you liked him in the first place, the reason you broke up with him. You close your eyes; you’d almost said that the sex with Eduardo was better than it had ever been with Mark—but people had always told you your honesty was to a fault, not to the point of exaggeration. You get your nerves back together, change into comfortable clothes, and move around your apartment like you usually do, like Mark isn’t there.

At the end of the week, you go out again—same club as before, this time with friends. Eduardo is there and finds you and, grinning, says, “Hey stranger.” You grin back as he winds his arm around your waist, inviting you to dance.

*

You know where Erica’s apartment is this time, help her in, press her against the nearest flat surface (the wall) and kiss her senseless. She wraps her arms around your neck, tucking her heels behind your ankles.

Mark’s voice floats over. “Welcome home,” he says dryly.

You both ignore him. Erica says, “We should go to my bedroom.”

You shrug, considering. “We should,” you agree, but it’s so easy for you to slip your hands up Erica’s skirt, tease at the edge of her panties, duck your head down to mouth at her breast through her shirt. She gasps and moans and your mouth works on her. Mark is right there. You groan a little when your finger dips at where she is hot and slick.

“Eduardo,” she starts, but you slide down, prop her knees and legs over your shoulders, raising her up from the ground and ducking under her skirt. Her hands fist into your hair.

You hear her say, “This shouldn’t be physically possible,” but you say, “I work out,” and then you’re too busy with your mouth and then she’s far too lost in the sensation to try to pretend she can think clearly again. Mark is right there and you eat her out in the hallway of her apartment, and she comes softly, a stifled shout, thighs trembling around your head.

She yanks you back up and kisses you and says, very seriously into your mouth, “Bed.” You grin against her lips and say, “Bed,” and she tugs you by the collar of your shirt and into her room.

Later, she comes back from brushing her teeth, wearing your button-up and her underwear. It’s dark but you think she smiles when she joins you back in her bed, finding your hand with hers. You kiss the junction between her shoulder and neck.

“Tell me about Mark,” you say to her.

She snorts, rolling onto her back. “What?” she says. Then: “You don’t want to hear about Mark.”

“Yes I do.” You nudge her gently with your knuckles. “Tell me about you two. About your breakup.”

“Someone’s nosy,” she says, and you just nudge your nose against her cheek, making her giggle and punch your shoulder. Then she sighs. “It’s really not that interesting, seriously.”

“It must be at least half as interesting as you,” you say.

She’s pushes you again, but only barely. “You’re trying to flatter me to get me to open up,” she accuses.

“I’m not!” you say sincerely. “I mean it. You’re interesting, your relationships must be at least a little be interesting, too.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll bite.” She laughs again. “I don’t know, with Mark things were just… unpredictable and weird. I’m surprised we lasted as long as we did.”

“And how long is that?”

In the dark, you see her head turn. Surely she’s giving you a look for your incessant questions, but she says, “Five years. We lived in this apartment together for two years.”

“Two years,” you say, surprised. “Well, that explains why he’s still here.”

“Yeah, I—” She cuts herself off and sighs. “I was fascinated by him, I think he was fascinated by me, too. There was always just something new to discover about him, and he always acted like he was better than everyone else, but he liked me, so.” You feel her shoulders shift, maybe shrugging. “I guess that made me feel special.”

“ _He_ made you feel special,” you say pointedly.

She sounds reluctant when she says, “Yeah.” Then she rolls over to kiss your cheek. “But you know how to make a girl feel special too, Eduardo,” she says, and you can feel her smile against your skin.

You laugh. “This wasn’t supposed to be about me,” you say, though she’s rolled on top of you and kissing down your neck and you can’t really protest. She is small and arches forward so she is smaller and she is still wearing your shirt, so the night ends with your head between her legs again.

*

You hear them have sex again. Your chest hurts and you’re half-hard in your pajama bottoms and the hall is dark. Her noises are the same as always, as before—his are unfamiliar. You listen.

They stop, eventually. There’s some mumbling and something that sounds like her laugh, something that can only be his laugh. More talking, and then it’s quiet. You’ve lain down on the ground, even though the floor is hard and the rest of your things have been moved back to your parents’ place, thirty minutes away from the city. You close your eyes and listen to the silence, the soft sound that hadn’t been there before, that is probably his snoring. You listen with your hands across your chest, waiting for yourself to fall asleep.

You think you may have hit the edge of exhaustion when you hear a door creak open. It’s probably for Erica to go to the bathroom again, so you keep your eyes closed, and breathe shallowly.

The light doesn’t turn on from behind your eyelids. Her footsteps pad closer to you—are around your shins—there is a warmth at your side, a body parallel to yours. You hear her breathing next to you, drifting like a ghost against your face. You let your chest rise and fall as before. She lies there. When her head turns, it’s a faint sound against the wood of the floor.

You don’t turn your own head, but you blink your eyes open. Your gaze drifts to the side. Her eyes are closed and you watch her—even in the dark, you can see where her eyelashes stop and begin, and there is no moonlight in the hallway but you know every angle of her body, can trace it from memory. Your eyes close again.

After a while, you hear her get up, step quietly back to her room. The air next to you is cold. You try and sleep.

In the morning, they are both in the kitchen, laughing over coffee. You always hated coffee, preferred something with sugar like Mountain Dew or Red Bull. (When you were still in high school, your dad, who’s a dentist, tried to get you to stop the habit. If he couldn’t, no one could.) You, also already awake, bounce the rubber band ball that had originally been Dustin’s before it was yours before it was hers. They ignore you.

“All I can cook is breakfast food,” she’s saying, and there’s the sound of cupboard doors opening. “Like pancakes.”

“You’re in luck. I like pancakes,” he says.

Since you are sitting opposite them, facing away from the kitchen doorway, you imagine her turning around and smiling. She had walked out in a white button-up that looks too big for her, that can’t be hers, and it infuriates you at how good she looks in it.

“You like most things, don’t you?” she says to Eduardo, who laughs so loudly he had to have thrown his head back, with his long, golden, stupid neck.

“Untrue! I dislike spiders, and also stepping on wet surfaces while wearing socks,” he says.

“Well _you’re_ in luck, because I think spiders are cute,” says Erica. You already know this. “But no one likes wet socks.”

“No one should like spiders, either,” Eduardo says pointedly.

“They could make very cute pets,” Erica insists. You’ve heard this argument before. “And they contribute to the ecosystem, you know. Spiders’ rights and all that!” and Eduardo laughs again. It’s annoying. “Anyway, I guess this means I’ll carry away the spiders—and _not_ kill them.”

“Whatever works for you,” says Eduardo’s voice. “And you’ll also cook the pancakes.”

“You could water the plants,” Erica suggests. You know she’s not joking; her plants line the windowsill kitchen, and you could never be trusted to water them because you’d always forget. She never minded or really complained, because she loves her weird plants that you don’t know the names of, loves stroking their leaves and watering them and murmuring to herself.

But you listen as Eduardo enthusiastically exclaims, “I could!” and then Erica’s telling them all their names in Latin, which you’ve never heard her speak before. _Spathiphyllum_ and _disocactus_ roll off her tongue, between the sound of their laughter, and they are bright under the kitchen sunlight. You throw your rubber band ball against the wall, in the shadow of the hallway.

*

“Girl.” Christy rolls over from her desk on her chair, to you. “Who was that?”

You turn to your computer and try not to smile. “Who was what?” you ask, even though you work on the first floor of the building and basically everyone had seen Eduardo walk you to the door, kiss you on the cheek before leaving.

“That very, very—” Christy leans over your desk “— _very_ fine man you were walking with just now. You bounce back _fast_.”

“I was the one who broke up with Mark. There’s nothing for me to bounce back from,” you remind her. But then you think of Eduardo and smile. “But yeah.”

“So?”

You let Christy sit in eager anticipation a second longer. Then you turn to her.

“His name’s Eduardo,” you enthuse, “and he’s kind of incredible—”

“Incredibly sexy, I’ll say,” says Christy, and you cover your face and try not to laugh too loudly. You’re both the same age, fresh out of college, work the front desk of the building, though she’s at NYU for grad and you’re taking online classes at Fordham. She smirks at you and asks, “So, have you slept with him yet?” and you hit her arm playfully, pretending to be scandalized.

“Christy!” you exclaim, but she keeps looking at you like she knows. So you say, “Twice. Counting by night.”

“ _Girl_.” Christy whistles. “Is this an exclusive thing? Do you want to share a piece of that?”

“Well,” you say, and then fidget. Your mind drifts to Mark again—stubborn, stupid Mark, whom you still miss in bed, who’s still _there_ in your fucking apartment. “Mark’s still sitting in my hallway,” you grumble, turning back to your computer. “So I’ve kind of technically shared him with Eduardo already.”

Christy’s eyes go wide, comically. “He didn’t hear—”

You nod.

“What a _perv_.” Christy looks disgusted, before she rests her chin on her hand thoughtfully. “You think he’s into that?” she asks.

You roll your eyes. “He’s not _that_ weird,” you say, and Christy snorts (because she’s met Mark before.) You turn back to work, ignoring the part of you that’s hoping, _maybe he is._

*

The text comes in: _so you admit you do think you’re funny_. You laugh and cover your mouth. _I admit that I think I know my way around a joke._

 _not bad, but there’s room for improvement_ is the response.

You want to keep the conversation going, but you have several new emails from clients and need to update your spreadsheets for the day; plus your father is, once again, bugging you about quitting independent work and go into a business where he can put in a good word for you. You have your own money from investing in heating oil every summer; you like the unpredictability of young clients the same way you like the harmless destruction of storms.

You don’t like being stressed and swamped with work, though, so you put your phone on mute and roll your shoulders, stretch your neck, preparing yourself for the tunnel vision of work.

*

Randi asks, “Are you seriously still at Erica’s apartment?”

“It’s our apartment,” you say stubbornly, into the speaker. You’re alone right now because it’s the afternoon on a week day, and you have a notebook and were writing code, but it got too sore on your wrist and your brain moves faster than the speed you can draw a bracket. “She hasn’t technically kicked me out yet.”

“I’m pretty sure she did when she dumped you and you moved out,” says Randi’s voice.

You are silent.

“Sorry,” says Randi, abashedly. “Just—I refuse to take responsibility in enabling you, okay?”

“I’m just asking you for my laptop,” you say. You have stopped coding, resorted to doodling, even though you hate art. “And my charger,” you add.

“Move _on_ , Mark.”

“See you in forty,” you say, and then hang up.

Randi does come, in roughly forty minutes, with your laptop and a sad expression on her face. She doesn’t say anything, but you say, “It’s not that bad. She hasn’t thrown out my Cocoa Puffs yet.”

“Are you taking that as a gesture?” says Randi. “Do you want her to throw out your Cocoa Puffs?”

“It could be because Eduardo keeps eating them,” you add thoughtfully.

Randi’s eyebrows furrow. “Who’s Eduardo?”

You shrug. “Nobody. It’s nothing,” you say, because that’s the truth. “Thanks for my laptop,” you say, and begin to push her out.

“Mark—”

She tries to push back, but you get the door closed. You peer through the fish-eye of the peephole, where you see her wait for a second, sigh, and then leave. You go back to your spot in the hallway and open up your laptop.

Your phone buzzes. _Can’t believe how many people I have to work with_ , says Eduardo. _I don’t mind it, but sometimes I’d rather stay in bed._

You wait for a second.

You type, _with me?_

You backspace.

 _grin and bear it, no one will suspect otherwise_ , you send instead.

You open up your laptop. Your phone buzzes again.

_Great advice. Any idea how to translate that to emails?_

You think of something you wouldn’t say.

_pretend they’re someone you actually enjoy talking to? pretend like you’re texting me._

_I could pretend they’re you_ , he sends you.

You blink and open up SublimeText on your computer, trying not to think too much. Your phone buzzes with another text from him, this time asking about what you’re having for lunch. You make something up, code, carefully allotting for intervals of silence, and putting your phone on silent when she comes home.

*

When you see that he’s begun to occupy his hallway time with his laptop, you know that means he isn’t planning on leaving any time soon. You resist the urge to take his laptop and smash it into a million pieces and scream at him to leave.

On the third day with his laptop, you come out of the bathroom and he is typing rapidly, washed in blue light. You slink over and slide down next to him. He stops and looks at you.

“Don’t you think you should give up?” you murmur.

He squints. You know he’s trying to look calculative, but all you can see is hurt. “I don’t want to give up on you, Erica,” he says to you.

“That’s nice, but I don’t want you to make your sister to come here to bring you stuff anymore,” you say. “Like Red Bull and Twizzlers.” You’ve seen the trash when you come back from work, and in the morning. “Mark, we were over a long time ago.”

He leans in and kisses you fiercely. His lips had always been full and a little sweet and he makes a soft noise in your mouth. You hate that there’s still a spark, that there’s a tug of _want_ in your chest, and after too long you force yourself away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers against your lips.

“You shouldn’t have,” you say, though you don’t pull away from the gap, even though it’s there. You know he wants to close it again, you know you should leave—you should go back to your room and masturbate and sleep, without him. You let your breaths mingle for another minute, before you let your body stand up, and head to your room. You try not to think about it, or him.

He is still there in the morning.

You worry you may be getting used to this.

*

She pretends to be surprised when she sees you. “Walking me home from work now?” she says, laughing against your side. “Are we dating?”

You smile and decide not to answer. “Well, I know where you work,” you point out.

“Point,” she says, poking you. “And you know where I live. That’s two-zero.”

You watch her for a moment. “I can show you where I live,” you say, and she grins.

A couple of hours later and you get up off your couch as she, naked, stretches on it. “Hey,” she says to you. “Question. How do you get someone to leave when you’re not sure if you want them to leave anymore?”

“Are we talking about Mark?” you ask, coming back with two glasses of water. She takes the other one gratefully.

She sips and sighs, sitting up cross-legged. “I broke up with him for good reason, but.” Her gaze drifts past yours, and she looks wistful. “I can’t believe I’m kind of glad he hasn’t given up.”

“Well, some would say that that’s a toxic relationship,” you say pointedly, joining her, sitting cross-legged as well. “Harboring old feelings where you let them get in the way of your new ones is bad for you.”

“Thank you, therapist.” Erica bumps her knee against yours. “I just—” She bites the corner of her lip. “Do you want to know why I broke up with him?”

“Color me intrigued,” you say.

Her knee knocks against yours, again. She says, “He started to make me feel like he thought I should be grateful for him. Not that he thought he could do better than me, but—” She breaks off again.

You rub your thumb at her ankle.

She looks up at you. “He was just really condescending about some things, you know?” she says. “I know he cared, but he’s also so _blindsided_ —he’s such an _idiot_ —”

“So you broke up with him because he’s an idiot,” you say. She gives you a look, but you say, “No, I’m serious. It’s a good reason, if he’s not smart enough to think about you as much as you need.”

She rubs at her eyes. “God, it makes me feel like such a bitch.”

“Hey, no.” You lean in and take her hand, kiss the tips of her fingers. She raises her eyebrows at you like _really?_ but you don’t care. “You can be pretentious,” you tell her honestly, “but you’re not a bitch.”

“Did you just call me pretentious?” she laughs, as you begin to pull away from her.

You grab your TV remote and turn on the TV, where it flicks to the weather channel. “Do you want to see something interesting?” you say, and she rolls her eyes but nods.

*

It’s a weekday and you’re alternating between working on a program you don’t quite know the purpose of, yet, and texting Eduardo. He seems to be in a good mood today so you don’t mind the breaks in your coding, and you’ve finished two whole cans of Mountain Dew since eight this morning. You were awake when Erica had gotten out, showered, and alternated between dressing for work and eating breakfast. She hadn’t said anything to you so you hadn’t said anything to her.

Eduardo sends, _do you want to hear a math joke?_

You reply, _no_ , but you do, and smile a little when a reply comes a minute later.

 _Too bad_ , then _Did you know that 3.14% of sailors are pirates?_

You stare at your phone.

_that was really bad and i am so glad you are not a stand-up comedian._

_Thank you for your support._

You pretend you’re not smiling as you return to your laptop. He’s probably working and you are, too, technically—you do freelance programming, which on its own isn’t very promising, except you have Microsoft and Harvard on your resume so you have more clients than the average freelancer. You’re waiting to hear back from your current clients, and—since the breakup—you’ve had a lot of free time on your hands, to write your own programs. Before that you could’ve been sulking, except you don’t sulk.

Nearly an hour later for what should be Eduardo’s lunch break, he sends, _Hey, I’m off work early today. Want to meet up?_

Your fingers fumble over your phone keyboard. _no_ , you type quickly, _I can’t_. You wait for a second, then send it.

_You sure?_

_some of us have work_. It sounds short in your head, but Erica always managed to make her texts sound light.

 _Fair enough_ , he replies, and you are relieved.

Thirty minutes later, you hear a knock at the door. Startled, you scramble up—maybe it’s Erica, maybe she forgot her keys—she would be grateful for you opening the door, maybe she’ll talk to you. You don’t even check the peephole—

Eduardo is there, and grins when he sees you. You scowl.

“Erica’s not here,” you say.

“I know,” he says. “Can I come in?”

You want to say no, but he’s already pushing his way past you, getting the door closed. You’re about to ask him what the hell he’s doing here, why he just _invited himself in_ , but then he has a hand wrapped around your wrist and dragging you toward his body and you’re too stunned to really say anything.

You don’t notice where his other hand is going until you realize he’s holding your phone, having pulled it out from your pocket. “Do you want to explain something to me?” he asks. Both of his thighs are touching yours.

You swallow and keep your gaze locked on his. “Explain what,” you say. You want to ask him why you’re both standing so close together, except you don’t really want to pull away.

“Why you’re texting me pretending like you’re Erica,” he says to you. He searches your gaze, and you keep your face as empty as possible. “Why you sexted me pretending you were Erica.”

“You bought into it,” you say.

He raises his eyebrows. “You started it.”

You had; you had early on, with _are you awake right now?_ and _i can’t get to sleep_ , neither of which had been lies. With _i'm also half-naked, if you’re up for that_ , which had been except your hand was in your pants and you remember his stupid face in the kitchen that had once been yours, eating your Cocoa Puffs and grinning at you with the mouth he’s had on your ex-girlfriend, on all the places your mouth had been.

You say, “You don’t have any proof,” despite that you’d nearly confessed to it. Your phone is on lock.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, you know,” he says.

Before you can open up your mouth to refute that, he adds, “I have Erica’s real number.”

You blink. You stumble back.

“You,” you say. “What?”

“You texted me first,” Eduardo says. He squints at you. “Why are you still in Erica’s hallway?”

Your mouth is trying to catch up with your mind. “You knew it was—you left your phone number for me,” you realize. “You were trying to get _me_ to—”

“I wasn’t trying to get you to do anything,” says Eduardo. “What were _you_ trying to do?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything either,” you lie. When he stares at you—he’s not holding onto your wrist anymore, but you don’t back away—you say, “I was going to try to get you to hate her, but that wouldn’t—” You shake your head. “You like her too much,” you say.

“So do you,” he accuses. You can’t even protest that, just glower, but his face is getting closer to yours. “Stop living in her goddamn hallway,” he mutters between your lips.

His hand is on your cheek, and you open your mouth against his, let him slide his tongue hotly into your mouth, work his lips against yours. This feels dirty because neither of you live here and Erica is—you want to be Erica’s, too, but his other hand is at your hipbone and the front of your pajama bottoms brush against his trousers, and you feel smug and victorious and guilty all at once.

“Fuck,” you say, pulling back. His eyes are black and you’re turned on. You think of Erica—this isn’t fair to her, and you say, “Erica—”

“—should be back in,” Eduardo’s pulled his own phone out (yours had clattered to the floor, from his hand, but you don’t really care), “hm. Twenty minutes?”

He shows you his phone, where he has a conversation under _Erica_ , none of the messages coming from your number. His most recent text says, _I told Mark._

“She only found out a few days ago,” he says, even though it doesn’t stop the humiliation from washing over you, “and we were waiting for you to come clean.”

“This is,” you start, but he’s begun kissing you again, and you hate how you can taste a little bit of Erica on him, as well as something that’s his own, spicy and sweet like cologne. “Unfair,” you say, between kisses, between getting your hands under his shirt and across his stomach.

He gasps at your touch. He says, “You can say thank you any time now.”

*

He’s never going to be your favorite person in the world, but he’s sitting at your kitchen when you come home. He’s surrounded by his boxes—a mirror image of months ago, except now the other way—and your pen stylus is in his mouth as he’s typing.

You unstrap your shoes. “Good afternoon,” you say, frowning at him. You know he sees, even though he doesn’t look up.

“I was playing a game,” he explains. “Then I had a thought.”

You go over to him and pluck your stylus out of his mouth. “As if that’s an excuse to leave teeth marks on this,” you say. “I use my tablet for _work_ , Mark.”

He rolls his eyes.

You don’t greet him with a kiss, don’t tuck your ankles under his and ask how his day was, like you used to. You find your tablet on your sofa and put the stylus back; you decide to find the game he was playing and resume it yourself. You hear a noise of protest from the kitchen but Mark doesn’t come over and make you give your tablet back. He works and you play his game—you beat his high score, and cheer. He glances over and pretends to scowl at you.

It’s all a new pattern—like before, you go to the bathroom with the door open, sometimes walk around in your underwear. His eyes drift to you but he never tries to touch, and you don’t, either. Christy says that you’re making a mistake moving back in with him.

Truthfully, you probably are. But you’ve caught Mark watering your plants in the morning twice in a row now.

*

You get back to the sight of your two favorite people in the world—Erica on the couch, barefooted and in her clothes from the day—Mark at her kitchen table, presumably still working. It’s your favorite sight, though the day Erica had come back when you were both supposed to be at work to Mark blowing you in her hallway is somewhere up there, too.

“Why do you come here every afternoon if you don’t live here,” Mark mutters without looking up from his work.

You go over to home, still holding your briefcase, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “You know why,” you say, smiling. You go to the living room and Erica tilts her head back; you kiss her, too, full on the lips and kind of upside down.

She laughs into you. “This is killer on my neck,” she says.

You kneel down by the couch and put a hand at the back of her head and kiss her up front, fully. She’s still smiling against your mouth and, between your kisses, manages out, “That wasn’t meant to be an invitation,” and you kiss her neck and say, “Too bad.” You begin to arch over the couch to make out with her, like the day you’d shown her your place for the first time and the conversations you’d been having with Mark, before.

She glances over your shoulder. You do, too; Mark is watching you two. He looks away quickly when he catches you both noticing, but doesn’t start typing right away at his laptop.

You chuckle. “What do you want for dinner?” you ask Erica.

“Hm,” she says. “Stir fry?”

Your eyebrows furrow. “I’ve never made stir fry for you before,” you say. You usually make dinner because breakfast is the only thing Erica can cook, and Mark likes to pretend he eats only licorice and canned tuna for lunch, instead of your leftovers.

But Mark looks at you again, and this time he says, “I have,” and Erica taps your chin and says, “How convenient.”

*

You think they will have sex on the couch while you cook; instead, Eduardo comes over to you and asks, “What can I do to help?” You try and say, “I’m working, Eduardo,” but he gives you those stupid eyes and begins tugging you by the wrist, and there’s always been a part of you that’s bad at saying no to making Erica happy; and now there's a new part of you that wants to join Eduardo as he begins puttering around the kitchen.

So you find leftover rice and tell Eduardo what to pull out from the spice rack (soy sauce, sesame oil, vinegar) and you move around the kitchen together in clatters and smirks you steal when he is definitely looking. He places a hand at your waistline when he asks you about how to pour the right amount of soy sauce; he kisses your cheek before going to make the other dishes that you don’t know anything about.

He plays footsie with Erica over dinner and you wish you had thought of that, back when you and Erica were still—together. You and Erica had always lived well together, but never really worked well. That’s what Eduardo is here for.

That’s what you would tell anyone if they asked.

The truth is, you like the scale of Eduardo’s body against yours, when he’s away at work and pretends he’s focusing but spends half the time sending you completely unimportant texts. You don’t really like that the bedroom that had once been spare has now become yours, but you’re not sure if Erica will ever like you as much as she likes Eduardo; as much as _you_ like Eduardo.

She says to you, “So what have you been working on?” as she picks out the peas in her stir fry and plucks them into Eduardo’s plate. He doesn’t like them either. They’ll end up in your dish eventually.

You tell them—her, because Eduardo is busy protesting—about some of your clients and your personal project, trying to make it sound cooler than it really is, catching the flicker of her interest fading to boredom. You say to her, “Just give me your peas,” and then she has the nerve to actually try and feed you, and you only go along with it because it makes Eduardo shut up and stare at you both.

Eduardo leaves (eventually), with kisses on both of your foreheads while zipping up his pants. You both listen to him leave.

(The truth is, even though your things are all in the other bedroom, you’ve spent more time on this mattress.)

You say against her chest, once he’s gone and it’s just the two of you, “I can’t believe we’re cuddling.”

She laughs and pokes your shoulder. “It’s your own fault,” she says, because your arms are around her waist and you are afraid of letting her go. You never were, before, never touched her too long in bed or brushed your knuckles against her needlessly, before.

But now as you get up you brush your knuckles against her cheek, and she smiles at you. “You know,” she says. “Every day I wonder if we’re a good idea again.”

And it makes your chest ache. It does. Yet she is _here_ and smiling as if to ask you to convince her otherwise.

You still want to make her laugh, and make her look at you as if you’re something unreal, as if you’re better than you are, and you don’t think that’s a bad thing. And she still knows you down to your bones—and Eduardo, who is pretty to the veins on his palms, does not deserve you as you are either.

But you try.

So you say, “Come sit in the kitchen with me,” and she whines about moving and getting dressed. She puts your sweatpants on, anyway, and your t-shirt that is a little too big for her, and walks out of the bedroom first.

She starts talking about embroidery patterns, and you don’t care but you listen, pretending to have as much interest in what she’s saying the same way she does when you talk about your work. And she doesn’t take your hand when you walk back out, but her hip bumps against yours, and she smiles a little, something unsure on her face. You aren’t sure if it will ever go away, but Eduardo will be here tomorrow.

So Erica teases about your work being just video games, and in retaliation, you make her say the Latin names of her plants again, because she never took Latin in high school. Her pronunciation is laughable and she’s laughing too, over tripped up consonants, and calls you a _nerd_ , fond. Every once in a while, your feet bump against hers, and it’s an accident which she ignores as you both work.

Together, you sit and wait: for him, and, hopefully, for everything else.


End file.
